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paintings decorating the walls. “I’ve been looking for you. How are you feeling?”
    “Well enough, thank you, Sir Jack.”
    “Just call me Jack. My title is a minor one; I rarely use it. Only Pettibone insists on calling me Sir Jack. I thought we might engage in conversation so I might judge your ability to speak intelligently on various subjects.”
    “My first lesson, Jack?” Moira asked tartly, displaying some of her old mettle.
    Jack grinned. “You’re not short on wit—that’s a good sign. Let’s go to the study; it’s less intimidating than the drawing room. I met Jilly in the hall and asked her to bring refreshments.”
    “First tell me about the people in these paintings. Who are they?”
    “Various ancestors,” Jack said. “Lord, I haven’t looked at these pictures in years.”
    “That must be your father,” Moira said, pointing to a dignified man standing stiffly at attention. “You resemble him.”
    “He died when I was twelve. My mother is on his right.”
    “She’s beautiful. You have her eyes. Who is the other lady?”
    “Lady Amelia, my great-great-grandmother. This house was built for her.”
    “She looks sad.”
    “She had good reason. Her only son died a wastrel. ’Tis said she haunts the manor from time to time, trying to save others from her son’s fate.”
    Moira’s eyes grew round. “Have you seen her?”
    “I don’t believe in ghosts,” Jack said abruptly. “Come along. Our refreshments will be arriving soon.”
    A few minutes later, they were seated in the study, basking in the warmth of the hearth. Jilly brought tea, then promptly left to assist Pettibone with dinner.
    “What should we talk about?” Moira asked, sipping delicately from the cup. Jack watched her closely, studying her manners and deportment. What he saw seemed to please him.
    “I must say your parents did well by you. Are you certain neither of them were gentry? It isn’t unusual for a woman of gentle birth and breeding to fall in love and marry a man far beneath her in station. Or perhaps it was your father who married beneath him.”
    “Da owned a small farm. Mama was an orphan. She was raised by nuns after her mother died birthing her. Her mother was an innkeeper’s daughter, but Mama never knew the name of her father. Being illegitimate always bothered Mama, but Da loved her dearly, never questioning her reasons for educating my brother and me above our stations.”
    “Strange,” Jack mused thoughtfully. “Why would a farmer’s daughter need an education? You certainly can’t claim to be a lady. There are things you’ve neglected to tell me, Moira. Such as why you were walking the streets late at night in a blinding storm. Did your lover abandon you? Are you a prostitute?”
    Moira rose clumsily to her feet, sheltering her injured arm. Anger and outrage stiffened her petite form and brought a dangerous glitter to her golden eyes. “You, sir, are no gentleman! Strictly speaking I may not be a lady, but I am not a prostitute!”
    The corners of Jack’s lips lifted upward. “Strictly speaking,” he mocked, “I am no gentleman.”
    “You owe me an apology, sir.”
    “Sit down, Moira. I’ll apologize after I hear your explanation.”
    God, she was splendid when roused to anger, Jack thought. Full-lipped and provocative, she tantalized with an intense eroticism that enticed and enthralled him. He envied her lover, if indeed she had one.
    “I owe you no explanation,” Moira insisted, too upset to sit down. “As long as we’re airing our grievances, I may as well tell you I do not trust you, and your grand plan for myfuture is suspect. Why should you care what happens to me? My problems are none of your concern.”
    Jack unfolded his lanky length from the chair. “I’m making it my business. You’re my responsibility, and I’d rather find you a husband than have you interfering with my own marriage plans. You saw Lady Victoria’s reaction to you. It wouldn’t do to have a